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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148828">There Is No Such Time / To Tell You / That Some Pains Ease Away</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumblingStar/pseuds/tumblingStar'>tumblingStar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood &amp; Manga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, I've got a lot of headcanons about Trisha and they're all going in here, Pre-Canon, Trans Edward Elric, Trans Male Character, and by headcanons i mean kin memories, because I'm a filthy kinnie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:08:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,761</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148828</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumblingStar/pseuds/tumblingStar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no such time<br/>To tell you<br/>That some pains ease away<br/><i>Testament</i>, Carolyn M. Rodgers</p><p>Decades before Ed and Al committed the ultimate taboo to bring their mother back, Trisha Elric was getting into schoolyard fistfights and running barefoot across the farm to see her cat's kittens. Years before Van Hohenheim left his family, a tall woman welcomed him into the Elric House for the first time. It all had to begin somewhere.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alphonse Elric &amp; Edward Elric &amp; Trisha Elric, Trisha Elric &amp; Pinako Rockbell, Trisha Elric &amp; Sara Rockbell, Trisha Elric &amp; Urey Rockbell, Trisha Elric/Greed the Avaricious, Trisha Elric/Van Hohenheim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Childhood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Trisha Elric was five years old when her first brother was born dead. She didn’t remember much of the day it happened; she had been banned from the house as her mother’s labor started and spent her time wandering between her yard and Miss Pinako’s house, two miles up the road. She’d been coming out of the barn, about to head up again, when she saw her father come storming out of the house and swearing creatively. She’d learned to stay out of sight when Papa was that mad, and was luckily able to duck around the corner before he set his eyes on her. She didn’t move from her hiding place until the sound of feet stomping into dirt faded in the distance, and only then—when her father was gone—did she dare to re-enter her home.
</p><p>She immediately regretted the decision as she closed the front door softly behind her. She could hear her mother sobbing, the midwife’s soothing tones indiscernible. She hated being around when Mama cried.
</p><p>The bundle of blankets that Trisha could see on the chair through the doorway did not move, and even Trisha knew that was wrong. Babies should not be left alone on chairs. Babies should cry. Her mother had told her this, preparing her for when her little brother or sister was born.
</p><p>She went back outside.
</p><p>She would be told later that her brother had died before he was born, although she wouldn’t quite understand until the second time it would happen, when she was eight, and then again when she was nine.
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha was ten when she reluctantly presented the note pinned to her dress to her father, cheek bruised from the nasty punch she’d taken in her schoolyard fist fight. She could not and did not meet his eyes, her gaze instead focused on the ankle crossed over his knee. She waited as he read, and then tensed when his foot began bouncing. Irritation rolled off of him in waves.
</p><p>“Useless daughter,” Papa grumbled under his breath. “Patricia, she doesn’t get any dinner tonight, either.”
</p><p>Mama faltered at the stove, nearly dropping her spoon. “Abraham, she’s gonna get too thin.”
</p><p>“She’ll learn to behave or she’ll learn to be hungry, Patricia. She’s never gonna get a good husband with an attitude like hers.”
</p><p>Trisha’s fists clenched. Papa noticed, chuckling darkly. “Aw, you mad? You gonna punch me too, little girl?”
</p><p>She raised her gaze to match his, setting her jaw stubbornly. “I’m not gonna get married.”
</p><p>Papa gave her a look for a moment, the kind that scared Mama, and then his face broke into a grin. “You’re not, huh?”
</p><p>“No.”
</p><p>“Gonna carve a livin’ out for yourself?”
</p><p>“Yes.”
</p><p>Papa reclined in his seat, smirking smugly. “In what house?”
</p><p>Trisha knit her eyebrows together. “This one.”
</p><p>“No you’re not.” Papa reached forward for his glass. “Your brother’s gonna get this house. This house has been passed from son to son ever since your great grandaddy built it way back when we came from Creta. Ain’t no girl gonna get this house.”
</p><p>“But you don’t have a son.” Trisha knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words came out of her mouth, but by then it was too late to take them back.
</p><p>The kitchen fell deadly silent. Trisha could feel Mama’s wide, terrified eyes on her, but her own were affixed to the way the smug look fell off of Papa’s face. That was the look that scared her, the carefully blank one that he wore as he drained his glass and made to stand up. Trisha scrambled backwards, trying to get out of arm’s reach, but he was faster than her. The back of his hand connected with her face, landing solidly on her bruise with force enough to make her stumble. She caught herself before she fell into the bookcase and knocked it over—that would just make her punishment worse.
</p><p>After Papa fell asleep in the rocking chair, Mama snuck into Trisha’s room with a cool cloth and a bread roll.
</p><p>“What were you fightin’ for, sweet pea?” she asked, pressing the cloth to Trisha’s face and the roll into her hands.
</p><p>“Gilbert and Mason were pulling the girls’ hair again.” Trisha muttered into the roll. “I know you say it’s because they like us but we don’t like it at all.”
</p><p>“That’s just how boys are, Trisha.”
</p><p>“S’that why Papa hits us?”
</p><p>Mama’s hand pulled the cool cloth away from Trisha’s cheek, but when Trisha turned to look at her she was already pressing it back, just a little too hard, making her face ache. “Yes, sweet pea.”
</p><p>Trisha scowled at her roll and took a vicious bite. “Then I’m not gonna get married. I don’t wanna put up with this for the rest of my life.”
</p><p>Mama rubbed her belly, in Trisha’s peripheral vision. “You’re gonna have to, sweet pea. When your brother gets born, and then your papa and I get old and die, he’s gonna get the house all to himself. You’re gonna need a husband to give you someplace to live.”
</p><p>“I’ll live in the barn.” Trisha said decisively. “Or with Miss Pinako and Urey.”
</p><p>“That’s not how it works, Trisha.” her mother tried to lift her free hand to smooth Trisha’s hair, but Trisha pushed the hand away. She shoved the rest of the roll in her mouth before she could say something to hurt Mama again, and took the cloth from her hand to press it against her own face.
</p><p>Her mother sat back and went back to rubbing the swell of her stomach. “You’ll understand when you get older.”
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha was eleven when she did not get a brother. Instead, when she heard the weak wail of a baby’s cry from the next room, she heard the midwife declare “It’s a girl!”
</p><p>A sick sort of satisfaction curled in her chest—her father had put all of his eggs into a boy’s basket with only girls to carry it—until Papa swore violently and, from the sound of it, punched something. </p><p>Trisha quickly ducked further into her room, but her father didn’t storm out of the house the way he had with his stillborn children.
</p><p>“A <i>girl?!</i>” he demanded. “Another <i>useless</i> fucking <i>girl?!</i> We went through all that <i>fucking</i> concern and shit for a <i>girl?!</i>”
</p><p>“Abraham—”
</p><p>“<i>Shut the fuck up, Patricia!</i>”
</p><p>Trisha chose to cover her ears with her hands then, muffling the shouting to the point of indistinction.
</p><p>The next morning, her sister was dead. It was no surprise—Mama had been having difficulty with all of her pregnancies, losing most of them before they came to term, and there of course had been the brothers Trisha never got—but it was still… she had gotten her hopes up when she heard the cry.
</p><p>The thought of what her father might have done did not occur to her until years later.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Father</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I do hope you guys are reading all their voices in southern accents, by the way.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Trisha Elric was fourteen years old and still grieving her mother when Pinako Rockbell kissed her forehead and sent her home, reluctant but firm. Trisha dragged her feet the entire way, and as soon as she came back into the house, her dread was realized.
</p>
<p>“Where the fuck have you been, girl?” Papa growled from his seat in the living room.
</p>
<p>Trisha’s face went carefully blank. “At the Rockbells’. Why?”
</p>
<p>“Didn’t you think it was about time to start makin’ dinner?”
</p>
<p>“No.”
</p>
<p>“No.” Papa repeated, mimicking her tone.
</p>
<p>“I can’t cook. You never get off your ass to work around the farm, so I took care of all that. Mama never taught me to cook.”
</p>
<p>Papa drained his glass. “It’s my damn farm, brat. I shouldn’t hafta do anythin’ I ain’t wantin’ to.”
</p>
<p>Trisha shrugged noncommittally and started for her room.
</p>
<p>“Where do you think you’re going?”
</p>
<p>“Away.”
</p>
<p>“Didn’t I just tell you to start on dinner?”
</p>
<p>“Didn’t I just say I don’t know how to cook? Why don’t you make something?”
</p>
<p>Papa didn’t reply, but Trisha already knew. She took two steps towards his chair, but he turned his head away from her as she spoke. “You can’t cook, you can’t sew—that at least I can do—you haven’t milked in years, you haven’t gardened or weeded in longer, you don’t feed the chickens or the dog or the cats. I’ve never seen you clean anything in my life. You haven’t run this farm in years. If it’s anyone’s farm, it’s <i>mine</i>.”
</p>
<p>There was no warning before Papa launched his glass in Trisha’s direction. She managed to dodge the initial collision, but the glass shattered against the wall and Trisha felt a couple shards against her arm. She didn’t have time to check the damage before Papa was storming across the room towards her, but a flash of temper swept through her. She was not her mother. She would not cower before a man until the day she died. Trisha locked her knees and straightened her spine, and Papa stopped inches in front of her and glared at her.
</p>
<p>“What are you gonna do?” Trisha taunted. “Hit me? It’s never done anything bef—”
</p>
<p>Hit her is exactly what he did, which was in no way out of the ordinary. Pain rang through her skull from her temple; rage flared in her chest, and before she could think she was stumbling into a fighting stance and landing a solid hit against Papa’s nose. There was a satisfying crunch, and the sight of her father losing his footing and falling flat on his ass thrilled her.
</p>
<p>Until absolute lividity flooded his eyes when he looked at her.
</p>
<p>Every ounce of courage that her own anger had given her fled; Trisha made a break for the door as Papa shot up. She made it outside, hearing his footsteps thundering against the hardwood behind her, but when she reached the porch she didn’t hear him follow.
</p>
<p>Instead, she heard the door slam.
</p>
<p>Trisha hurdled down the steps and caught herself, slowing to a stop. Bruno, who guarded their chickens from foxes and coyotes, lifted his head to look at her and thumped his tail.
</p>
<p>Trisha climbed the porch stairs again and tried the handle. Locked.
</p>
<p>After a week of sleeping in Pinako’s spare room, Trisha stopped trying to get in the house.
</p><p>***
</p>
<p>Trisha was sixteen when one of her father’s drinking buddies approached her, sitting on a blanket in front of Pinako’s house as she worked on a dress for one of the girls in the town.
</p>
<p>“Hey, Miss Trisha,” he’d said. Trisha, for the life of her, couldn’t remember his name. “Have you seen your pa anytime recent?”
</p>
<p>“I haven’t.” Trisha said curtly, finishing a seam and snipping her thread. “I haven’t lived in his house for two years now.”
</p>
<p>“Aw, I know, I know it,” the man wrung his hat in his hands. “Only, your pa hasn’t come ‘round town anytime recent, and we’re all a little worried for ‘im.”
</p>
<p>Trisha nodded down the road. “He’s at the end, there. About two miles down. Can’t miss him.”
</p>
<p>“Well, Miss Trisha,” the man seemed nervous. Trisha was glad; it meant the men around her were finally taking her displeasure with their existence seriously. “We were thinkin’, Abraham probably ain’t gonna want us snoopin’ around his farm. But if you were to go on up there, he’d probably let’cha.”
</p>
<p>Trisha raised an eyebrow. “Last time I saw the man, I broke his nose.”
</p>
<p>“Aw, Miss Trisha, where’s your compassion? What if he’s hurt and can’t get up? He might need your help, dear.”
</p>
<p>“I’m not your dear.” Trisha carefully folded the light blue dress and tucked it into her sewing basket. “But I’ll go up there to see if he’s dead.”
</p>
<p>“Ah,” the man’s hands stilled on his hat. “...yes, I suppose… that’s one reason to go check on him.”
</p>
<p>Trisha had walked away in the middle of his statement and didn’t bother replying, walking onto Pinako’s porch to crack the door open.
</p>
<p>She looked up from the automail piece she was working on in the living room. “What do you need, Trisha?”
</p>
<p>“One of Papa’s drinking buddies wants me to go up and check on him. No one’s seen him for a bit, I’m gonna make sure the bastard’s not dead.”
</p>
<p>“Alright. Be back in time for dinner, then.”
</p>
<p>“Will do.”
</p>
<p>Trisha shut the door behind her and waved a hand dismissively at the man. “Wait here. Or go home. I’m coming into town tomorrow anyway, I’ll find you and let you know what the old man’s up to.”
</p>
<p>She left before he had a chance to thank her, ignoring whatever words he aimed at her back.
</p>
<p>Two miles later found Trisha opening the front door of her father's house. The place reeked of rotten food and dirty laundry; clearly, her father had not been taking care of the house. It irked her; she loved this house, and her father had been letting it fall to ruin because he never deigned to lower himself to learn any kind of upkeep.
</p>
<p>Dirty clothes and various objects littered the floor. At first Trisha thought they were piled on top of Papa’s chair, too, but then the pile moved and glared at her and said, a weak mimicry of his usual sour attitude, “The fuck you doing here, girl?”
</p>
<p>Trisha blinked and observed him. Her first impression was half right; her father was buried under clothes and blankets. His face was pale and glistening with sweat, but he trembled as he sat.
</p>
<p>“You’re sick,” Trisha stated, more accusatory than she intended.
</p>
<p>Papa sniffed, pitifully, trying to seem haughty. “I ain’t.”
</p>
<p>“You are.” Trisha smirked. “All your life braggin’ about how much stronger you are ‘n all your brothers and then mockin’ Mama for gettin’ sick and here you are shiverin’ and sweatin’ like a whore in church.”
</p>
<p>"I ain’t sick!” Papa growled, and then nearly brought up a lung as his irritated throat made him cough.
</p>
<p>Trisha rolled her eyes and marched over to him, hauling him up by his arm. “I’m not surprised, with the way you been keeping this place. Let’s get you to bed, you dumb bastard, I’ll clean up some. You’re lucky Miss Pinako taught me how to make soup.”
***
</p>
<p>Two weeks after that, Trisha was just about sick of dealing with the old man. He fought her on everything, from the temperature of his soup to getting a doctor over to see him. The house was spotless, because she’d been spending her free time cleaning it up and just… making more soup. She had a limited range of cooking creation, and soup is what one eats when one is sick.
</p>
<p>Not that it had been helping. Papa had done nothing but get worse; tonight, he was his weakest yet. For the majority of it he’d been stuck halfway between waking and fever dreams. Now, as Trisha spooned soup into his mouth, his breathing sounded labored and and weak.
</p>
<p>“I wish you’d been a boy,” he said, gruff and weak. “You’d have been a great son.”
</p>
<p>A scowl etched itself into Trisha’s face. “I can’t tell if you meant that to be a compliment or not.”
</p>
<p>“I’m done eating.” Papa told her, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “You can go now.”
</p>
<p>Trisha heaved an irritated sigh, rising carefully enough not to spill the liquid and heading out. She cleaned up the dishes, patted Bruno on the head, and locked her door on the way out.
</p>
<p>The next morning, she knew something was different as soon as she stepped into the living room. If you asked her, she wouldn’t be able to put her finger on what exactly it was that tipped her off. There was some sort of staleness in the air, some stillness. It was the feeling of an empty house.
</p>
<p>Trisha didn’t need to come any further into her father’s room than the doorway to know he was dead. All she had to do was look at him, entirely still, pale as—well, a corpse.
</p>
<p>Bruno whimpered, nudging her thigh with his head. She hadn’t even noticed his approach, but his insistent pushing was hard to ignore.
</p>
<p>Trisha went about her chores. She filled Bruno’s bowl and tossed out some corn for the hens, fed and milked the cow. Then she went out to town to find someone to bury her father.
</p>
<p>She felt nothing. Not when buying his gravestone. Not when seeing the very few people at his funeral. Not when stripping his bed and scrubbing every inch of his room and tossing out all his things, including his favorite chair. Not when organizing them into a pile and using his booze to fuel the fire she lit with a match, to get rid of the illness as Urey and Sarah advised.
</p>
<p>Trisha Elric did not grieve for her father. Mostly, she just felt smug and satisfied. She’d inherited the house and the farm after all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have fun headcanons. This one is spawned from my "horny for Greed" gene and also "how hilarious would it be if Ed found out Greed fucked his mom"</p><p>And by headcanons I mean kin memories but I already put that in the tags, if you were paying attention</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Trisha Elric was 19 years old, running her farm on her own, and determined to do so for the rest of her life when she met a man laying on his stomach in the middle of <i>her</i> field, petting <i>her</i> cat.
</p><p>Now, since her father died, men from all over town—roughly her age or even, disgustingly, older than her—had been coming around to see her. Not because she was a particular beauty, she knew, but because in Resembool, if you didn’t have a farm to be able to sell various extra goods, you had to learn to get good at a skill. Seducing and marrying Trisha was the only way to get her farm, and thus the easiest way to make money for skill-less hacks with no property of their own. The sight of a man on her land was, to her eternal frustration, no surprise.
</p><p>What <i>was</i> surprising was that she’d never seen him before in her life. He was tall and muscular, with dark hair spiked and pretty eyes. And Remora, the cat who hated everyone except Trisha herself, was purring and nuzzling his hand.
</p><p>“Who the fuck are you?” Trisha demanded, gripping her pitchfork in both of her hands. She’d been coming over to toss hay, as one does, but it at least made for an intimidating tool in her hands. It had scared off many of her “suitors” in the past.
</p><p>The man glanced up and <i>smiled</i> at her, of all things. “Oh, hey. Do you live here?”
</p><p>She stared at him. “Clearly.”
</p><p>The man stood up and started to hunch over, clearly used to towering over people, before straightening up. She estimated him to be about six feet tall, a little over, so still taller than her, although not as considerably as he would be over shorter women. He shot her a charming grin full of sharpened teeth. “I’m Greed. Who’re you?”
</p><p>”Trisha.” she did not take the hand he offered, instead levelling him with an icy glare he didn’t seem to notice. Deciding that intimidation was not the tactic to use against this man who wouldn’t even give her his real name, Trisha brushed past him without another word and marched into the barn to let Bessie out into the field as she switched out the cow’s bedding.
</p><p>Expectedly, but enragingly, Greed followed her inside. “You’re here by yourself?”
</p><p>”Yep.”
</p><p>”I thought your kind usually liked to live with others.”
</p><p>Incredulously, Trisha paused with her hand on Bessie’s flank. “<i>My kind?</i>”
</p><p>Greed shrugged. “Yeah, you know. Humans.”
</p><p>Trisha wanted to be angry. Instead, she almost laughed. She herded Bessie into the field and set about tossing out the old hay. “You’re odd.”
</p><p>”I’ve heard that a lot since I started wandering around.” Greed replied, seeming entirely unbothered. “I’ve been looking for a place of my own.”
</p><p>Trisha felt her hackles rise, letting her hostility spike in her words, not bothering to look at him as she hissed. “Well this farm is <i>my</i> place, <i>not</i> yours.”
</p><p>”Oh, yeah, of course,” Greed’s response was unconcerned. “It’s one thing to find your own place, it’s an asshole move to try and take someone else’s.”
</p><p>”Tell that to all your little friends down in town, then,” Trisha scoffed. “I’m not a moron, I know y’all are only coming up here because you think that if you can marry me you won’t have to do any work to get your paycheck.”
</p><p>”I don’t have friends, and I haven’t been down to town at all yet.” Greed told her, and Trisha snapped, whirling around and holding her pitchfork up threateningly.
</p><p>”Oh, <i>please</i>,” she snarled. “Do you really thaink I’m that stupid?! You’ve done nothin’ but lie to me since you’ve shown up! You couldn’t even tell me what your name really was!”
</p><p>”It’s Greed,” Greed said, and he sure seemed confused, but Trisha had met good liars before. She jabbed her pitchfork abortedly; she wasn’t <i>actually</i> going to stab him, but it got her desired outcome. Greed took a step back, allowing her to take a menacing step towards him. He stepped further back—not like a man with a sharp object at his throat, though, more like a man who valued his personal space—and Trisha stepped forward, and so on, until Greed was pressed against the wall of the barn with Trisha’s pitchfork resting against his throat.
</p><p>”It really is Greed,” he insisted. “Listen, I’ve got five siblings, okay? We’re all named over one of the seven deadly sins.”
</p><p>”That only adds up to six of you.”
</p><p>Greed shrugged. “Father only wanted six kids.”
</p><p>Trisha stared at him incredulously. “That’s stupid.”
</p><p>”Yeah, I left for a reason.”
</p><p>Trisha had to give him that. Nevertheless she pressed the tines of the pitchfork closer to his skin. “And how do I know you’re still not just trying to flatter me into letting you into my life so you can freeload off of my farm?”
</p><p>Greed blinked. “Because I said I want a place of my own, and you said this is your place. It’s not really <i>my place</i> if it’s <i>your place</i>.”
</p><p>Trisha pressed harder, putting him under literal pressure, to draw the truth from him. She didn’t draw any blood, but his breathing became ever so slightly labored, and when he looked down at her—well. That wasn’t a look she was overly familiar with, but she’d seen it before. She pressed a little harder, just a little, and asked him, “Are you <i>enjoying<i> this?”
</i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>”I like a woman who can take care of herself,” Greed grinned, overly innocent, and then said hurriedly “I mean, you’re clearly not interested, and I can’t blame you because they way you’ve been talking it sound like your only experiences with people interested in you have been fake and that’s shitty but it’s <i>hot</i> when someone can kick ass.”
</p><p>Trisha stared at him. “You’re really not interested in my farm?”
</p><p>”Really.”
</p><p>”And you respect that I’m not interested?”
</p><p>
Greed’s brow furrowed. “What kind of scum wouldn’t respect that?”
</p><p>Trisha abruptly dropped her pitchfork and kissed him.
</p><p>This development shocked her as much at it shocked him; she froze where she stood, her lips pressed against his and him still pressed against the wood of the wall behind him. For a beat neither of them moved, and then Greed cautiously brought his hands to her waist, loosely. His lips brushed against hers lightly, just barely touching hers, giving her plenty room and opportunity to pull away.
</p><p>She wasn’t sure what came over her. Maybe it was because he was the first halfway decent man she’d met since Urey, who was not only like a brother to her and thus repulsive, but also taken by Sarah. Maybe it was because he was actually attractive, and sure there were plenty of attractive men in Resembool, but it was usually safe to assume that they weren’t worth one’s time. Maybe it was because deep down inside of her she was <i>lonely</i> with so few friends, and tired of pushing away everyone she got any kind of look at. Maybe she just wanted a human connection.
</p><p>Who was she kidding. It was definitely all of those reasons.
</p><p>Hoping her enthusiasm made up for her inexperience, Trisha threw herself into the kiss. Greed responded in kind, holding her tighter and running his hands over her body in a way that stirred the fire inside of her. Soon enough she was breathlessly leading him by the hand across her property, into her house, into her bedroom.
</p><p>A week later, as Greed was zipping up and buttoning his pants, Trisha was wrapping his shirt around her bare torso.
</p><p>”You sure you want to leave <i>now</i>?” she purred. “We have the whole day ahead of us.”
</p><p>Greed grinned at the sight of her, but nevertheless grabbed his shirt by the hem and drew it upwards. “Mm, I’m worried that if I don’t leave now I never will.”
</p><p>Trisha snorted, but let him peel his shirt off of her. “We both know I don’t want you here bad enough to let that happen.”
</p><p>Greed leaned down to press a brief kiss against her mouth. “I’m sure if I tried hard enough I could change your mind.”
</p><p>”But that’s not what <i>you</i> want,” Trisha retorted, and fell back in her bed. “You take care of yourself out there.”
</p><p>Greed pulled his shirt on, adjusted in, and trailed his eyes along the exposed portion on her skin. Laughing, she pulled her blanket up to her chin so Greed had no choice but to look at her face, which he did with a teasing smirk.
</p><p>”You too, Trisha.” he told her, and started for her door. “Don’t let anyone stop you from getting what you want.
</p><p>The grin didn’t fade from Trisha’s face as she stared up at her ceiling, listening to Greed whistling, then the front door closing. She laid in her bed a while longer, nearly content, before getting up and getting dressed. She went about the rest of her chores—weeding, harvesting, and otherwise gardening—having accomplished her morning duties before falling back into bed with Greed before he left. And then she sat back on her heels, staring out across the rolling green hills of the countryside.
</p><p>She still didn’t think she’d ever get married, but it would be nice to have a companion with her. Someone to keep around. No one from the town, of course. Well, maybe. It might be worth it to at least give someone a chance.
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Golden Days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is a long one. Like a really long one. Like it took me two weeks to write this out. I hope y'all are happy with it, because I... am actually happy with it. I really like how it came out!<br/>Also, this is the chapter where the tag "trans Edward Elric" become relevant, even though he doesn't come out until the next chapter. Like I said in the tags, this is all based on kin memories, so I will tell you that Ed's deadname here is not,in fact, his deadname in my canon, because I'm not gonna do my son dirty like that. Y'all don't deserve to know it. but the idea was the same. Since Xerxes was inspired by ancient Persia, I looked up Persian names to use, and what do you know? A lot of names we use today actually came from Persia.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Trisha Elric was twenty years old, the worst early-summer storm she’d ever seen hit Resembool came along. She'd fortunately gotten all of her animals into their appropriate shelters and prepared the house before it hit, but it was still an anxiety-inducing ordeal. The wind screamed and the thunder shook the walls, and rain fell so hard and fast that the brief moment she'd spent outside to check on her garden—a fruitless endeavor, as the visibility had been reduced to almost nothing—had soaked her to the bone. Her hair was still damp as she finished her dinner and started for the kitchen to clean up, before an odd knocking noise she nearly missed gave her reason to pause.
</p><p>The knocking came again, confirming that it was neither her imagination nor a stray branch blown into the house by the wind. Trisha wracked her brain for a reason someone would be out in this storm—were the Rockbells in some sort of trouble, or was someone trying to take advantage of the chaos of the weather?
</p><p>More knocking. Trisha deposited her bowl and spoon on the counter and took up a kitchen knife, just in case, before walking to the front door. She paused before unlocking it, briefly rethinking her decision as her heart leapt into her throat, and decided with her original plan. If someone needed help, she couldn't just turn them away.
</p><p>There was a stranger on her porch, soaked through and shivering and peering at her through glasses clouded over with water droplets. He seemed equally confused to see her as she was to see him, his eyebrows raising briefly as they stared at each other for a moment.
</p><p>"Is…" he said, his voice deep and soothing. "Is Pinako Rockbell here?"
</p><p>Trisha blinked at him. "No. Her house is two miles down. You've completely overshot her."
</p><p>"Ah. I’m sorry to disturb you, then." Said the stranger, and after a beat he turned, as if he were about to leave—<i>back into the storm</i> that still raged. Trisha made a guttural noise of confusion and objection, surging forward to grab him by the back of his dripping coat. "Are you <i>crazy</i>?! It's the end of the world out there, you’ll die!"
</p><p>"Oh," the stranger said as Trisha towed him in. "I—I don't want to impose—"
</p><p>"You're not imposing." Trisha said firmly, shutting the door behind him and locking it against the storm. "I'd feel awful if I let myself send you back out into that deluge. Believe me, I'm being entirely selfish. I think some of my father's old clothes might fit you."
</p><p>”Your father won’t mind?” The stranger asked, as if he weren’t drenched amd miserable and dripping all over her floor.
</p><p>”Oh, he absolutely would,” Trisha answered. “He’d hate everything about this scenario, but he’s dead, so it doesn’t matter.”
</p><p>”Oh, I’m—” Trisha was already walking off, but she could still hear him. “—Sorry for your loss.”
</p><p>”Don’t be,” she called. “He was a mean old bastard and I’m thrilled to be rid of him. You’re broader than he was, his clothes aren’t gonna fit you right, but they’ll do while yours dry.”
</p><p>”Thank you.”
</p><p>Trisha grabbed a few towels and handed the whole load off to the stranger. “Go ahead and get changed. I’ll get you some stew in the meantime.”
</p><p>”Thank you.”
</p><p>The stranger changed and Trisha gave him a bowlful, and they sat in silence by the fire as he ate and she worked on her latest commission.
</p><p>”Are your children already in bed?” The stranger asked.
</p><p>Trisha pressed her lips together, confused. “I don’t have children.”
</p><p>”Oh. You’re sewing a child-sized dress, so I thought…”
</p><p>”Oh!” Trisha laughed a little. “No, I’m a seamstress. People who can’t sew well or need something done with a little extra skill commission me for my work. I started after Pinako took me in, when my father kicked me out, so she wouldn’t have to stretch her budget too far to include me.”
</p><p>”I see.”
</p><p>There was another stretch of silence, comfortable silence, before Trisha spoke up. “What business do you have with Pinako?”
</p><p>”I was in the area, so I thought I’d visit an old friend.”
</p><p>”I didn’t think Pinako had many friends. What did you say your name was?”
</p><p>”Vanhohenheim.”
</p><p>Trisha… thought it was an odd name, admittedly, but there was a hint of an accent in his voice, so clearly he was somewhat foreign, and it was really not her place to judge his name. Her own name was, after all, just the second two-thirds of her mother’s.
</p><p>”Trisha Elric.” Trisha introduced. “I don’t think I’ve heard Pinako mention you before.”
</p><p>”It’s been quite a while.” Vanhohenheim nodded. “I wouldn’t expect her to.”
</p><p>”Who are you staying with, while you’re here?”
</p><p>”I had thought to stay with Pinako for the time being.”
</p><p>Trisha pressed her lips together again, less confused this time. “You just came into town, presumably without word beforehand, and thought to stay with Pinako? You two really must have been close. Her spare room was converted to her workroom, though, I’m not sure she has the space for you.”
</p><p>Vanhohenheim looked awkward. “I thought she had two spare rooms?”
</p><p>Trisha raised her eyebrows. “She has her room, her workroom, and Urey’s room.”
</p><p>”Who’s Urey?”
</p><p>Trisha felt her eyebrows raise higher. “Her son?”
</p><p>Vanhohenheim’s eyes widened. “She has a son?”
</p><p>A beat of silence, a clap of bone-rattling thunder, and Trisha couldn’t hold back a little laugh. “It really has been a while, hasn’t it? At least twenty-one years.”
</p><p>Vanhohenheim cleared his throat. “It doesn’t feel like it’s been so long. I’ll figure something out, I suppose.”
</p><p>”Tonight, at least, you can stay here.” Trisha told him. “Again, it would just be cruel to send you out in this storm. If it’s blown over by tomorrow, we could go see Pinako together. I’ve been meaning to visit her.”
</p><p>”That sounds nice.” Vanhohenheim replied.
</p><p>And yet, in the middle of the night, as the wind and thunder died down and Trisha found herself unable to sleep and heading into the kitchen for a glass of water, she watched Vanhoheinheim—not seeming to notice her in the dark—walk from his room to the living room in his still-damp clothes from earlier. She stood up, avoiding the squeaky floorboards for maximum stealth as she followed him, and just before he opened the door she spoke up. “And where do you think you’re going?”
</p><p>The man jumped guiltily, and gave her an apologetic look. “I… didn’t want to impose.”
</p><p>Trisha looked at him—really <i>looked</i> at the golden haired, golden eyed, golden skinned man in her house who seemed so polite, if somewhat scatterbrained—and made a snap decision.
</p><p>”Go back to bed, Vanhohenheim.” She told him. “We’ll visit Pinako together in the morning.”
</p><p>***
</p><p>“Why is it that you say my name like that?” Vanhohenheim asked Trisha one day, three months later, as they worked in the garden. Well, as <i>she</i> worked in the garden, and he—having been banned from placing his hands on living plants after the third time he pulled up a whole row of half-grown vegetables, mistaking them for weeds—picked up the weeds she pulled up and placed them in the basket to be dried and used for kindling later.
</p><p>“Like what?” Trisha asked, sitting back on her heels and swiping a wrist across her brow.
</p><p>”Vanhohenheim.”
</p><p>”Well, that’s how you introduced yourself to me. Pinako calls you Hohenheim, but I’ve never received permission to call you by a nickname.”
</p><p>Vanhohenheim looked at her for a moment, with that hesitant look he wore whenever he wasn’t quite sure how to phrase something. “You… <i>are</i> aware that Van and Hohenheim are two different words, though, aren’t you?”
</p><p>Trisha felt a flush rising to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the unseasonably warm mid-autumn day. “I am now.”
</p><p>Hohenheim had a look as though he were too polite to laugh, and Trisha felt her embarrassment mount on itself until she buried her head in her dirt-caked hands. “Oh, I’m <i>so sorry</i>!”
</p><p>”It’s a mistake anyone could make,” the gentle not-quite laugh that Trisha couldn’t see was audible in his voice, and Trisha had to laugh at herself too, as embarrassed as she was.
</p><p>”Sure, anyone <i>could</i>, but I’m the only one who <i>did</i>!”
</p><p>”For the sake of your pride, I will neither confirm nor deny that statement.”
</p><p>Trisha laughed again, her face hot. “Oh, I’m the stupidest woman you’ve ever met!”
</p><p>”You’re not.” Hohenheim put a soothing hand on her shoulder. “And I don’t believe self-deprecation will get you anything.”
</p><p>”It’ll get me to call you Hohenheim instead of ‘Vanhohenheim’!”
</p><p>”You could call me Van, if you’d like.”
</p><p>Trisha’s heart skipped a beat, but she dismissed it. It was <i>not</i> the time. “Are you sure you trust the mouth of a moron with your first name?”
</p><p>Hohenheim stroked his beard mock-thoughtfully, with a little smile betraying his levity. “A moron? No, I’m not sure I would. <i>Trishaelric</i>, however…”
</p><p>”Do <i>not</i> start calling me that!”
</p><p>***
</p><p>”Trisha, pacing won’t help that calf any.” Van said, not looking up from his book. Trisha sighed and reached for her coat, slipping it on again. Van, again not looking up at her, added, “And neither will going to check on it for the eighth time.”
</p><p>Trisha sighed again, more hopelessly, and flopped down onto the couch across from Van’s chair. “I’m just worried about that poor little thing.”
</p><p>”I know you are, but you said yourself that there’s nothing more you can do. If it survives to the morning it’ll likely make it, but if it dies tonight then it dies. You ought to go to bed.”
</p><p>”How am I supposed to sleep when all I can do is worry about that calf?”
</p><p>”Between the two of us, we should have more than enough books to occupy your mind.”
</p><p>Trisha paused anxiously and glared at the bookshelf. “Tell me a story.”
</p><p><i>That</i> got Van’s attention, his golden gaze flicking up to her. “I’m not much of a storyteller, Trisha.”
</p><p>”You’re a scholar and a traveller,” Trisha argued, trying to put on her usual sweet smile. “I’m sure there are plenty of stories in that head of yours. Tell me a story about a far-off land I’ll never see. Tell me something true!”
</p><p>The mood shifted dramatically, with no warning, from anxious anticipation to something grim as Van set his jaw with a wry smile. His gaze dropped back down to his book as he closed it, focusing on the leather cover.
</p><p>”A true story about a place you’ll never see…” he said, and then was silent for long enough that Trisha opened her mouth to tell him to forget about it. Before she could say anything, though, he began to talk about a slave who once lived in a city called Xerxes. The tone and weight of his voice made Trisha pay rapt attention as he spoke. This story was important to him. She understood it better now, that she’d learned a bit of alchemy from him, than she would have a few months ago, when she knew nothing. But with what she did understand, the things in this story... they chilled her to her core.
</p><p>When he finished, silence fell over them. Not their usual silence, where they simply sat and enjoyed each others’ company, but an uncomfortable, heavy silence. This silence had a presence.
</p><p>”That’s…” Trisha began, her voice thick. “...not a very happy story.”
</p><p>Her voice roused Van from the trance he’d seemed to fall into. He took a deep breath, blinking rapidly and glancing back and forth between her and the book in his hands.
</p><p>”I’m sorry,” he said, setting his book aside and taking the blanket she’d knit for him into his hands as he stood. “I shouldn’t have told you that when you were already so worried about the calf—”
</p><p>”No, no,” Trisha stood as well, pulling her coat tighter around her torso, unable to banish the bone-chill she was left with. “It worked. I completely forgot about that calf. But, now, I’d rather go check on it than think about that.”
</p><p>Van nodded and set about folding his blanket, turning his back to Trisha as she walked. She hesitated at the door and turned back, hurrying down the hall to peer at him from the doorway. “Van, I asked you to tell me a true story. Did you?”
</p><p>Van went still and didn’t answer her for a while. “Go check on the calf, Trisha. I’m sure it’ll settle your mind some.”
</p><p>The calf survived to the morning, easing Trisha’s worry, and leaving her free to fixate on the tale that Van had told her for the next three days. At breakfast on the fourth day, Trisha sat herself down across the table from him. “So. The man from your story.”
</p><p>He blinked at her, and then set his mouth in a line. “The slave.”
</p><p>”The scholar.” Trisha corrected. “What happened to him… after?”
</p><p>Van took a deep breath and released it. “He started wandering and found himself in ancient Xing. He started teaching alchemy, which became alkahestry.”
</p><p>”Where is he now?”
</p><p>”Oh, somewhere, I’m sure. There isn’t any information on him past that.” His tone was one of practiced indifference, as close to a flat-out dismissal as Trisha was sure she would get from him. Trisha, however, was not easily dismissed.
</p><p>”Did he ever get married and have a family like he wanted?” she asked.
</p><p>Van looked at her again, startled, and then focused on the breakfast he’d made. Trisha loved Van’s cooking; he was an awful gardener, but an amazing cook, with recipes he’d memorized from all around the world.
</p><p>”No…” he said slowly. “No, he didn’t.”
</p><p>Trisha hummed, took a sip of her juice, and then said, “Well, I wish I could meet him. I’d like to change that.”
</p><p>This time when Van looked up at her, her gaze was fixed firmly out the window. She was sure he knew, now, what she was getting at, and the softness of his voice when he asked, “Why?” confirmed it.
</p><p>”Well, you know,” Trisha felt her face heating up. “He just seems like a really kind, sweet man who could use a moron like me in his life to get his name all wrong.”
</p><p>Van didn’t respond, and after a while Trisha snuck a glance at him to see him opening and closing his mouth speechlessly.
</p><p>”Trisha,” he managed, finally. “You can’t.. I’m not… for goodness’s sake, you <i>just</i> heard…”
</p><p>Trisha set her glass down and leaned forward, folding her arms on the table. “Do you love me?”
</p><p>If anything, Van seemed more taken aback. “What…?”
</p><p>”Do you love me?” she asked again, more insistently.
</p><p>Van swallowed and gasped and finally said, almost brokenly, “Yes.”
</p><p>”Then why not?” she asked. “If I love you and you love me, then why shouldn’t we?”
</p><p>”You know why.” he said, suddenly firm. She hadn’t realized he’d been leaning away from her until he leaned forward to deliver that line.
</p><p>She didn’t back down. “What if I don’t care?”
</p><p>”Trisha…”
</p><p>”Listen,” she told him. “I made the decision to marry you the night we met. All the rest of this has just been me making sure that I didn’t want to back out. I’ve been spending the last three days thinking of nothing but you and Xerxes and marrying you and I’m more confident than ever. Nothing you can say or do is going to change my mind at this point.”
</p><p>That didn’t stop him from trying. Over the rest of the day, and the next following few, the two continued about their routine as if nothing was different, save that intermittently in their conversations Trisha would sprinkle in a comment about marrying him, and Van would gently but firmly turn her down. Trisha refused to concede this to him, but he seemed resolute and unbudging.
</p><p>At least, he did, until their next visit to the Rockbells.
</p><p>Urey and Sarah were getting married, which surprised absolutely no one, and it fell on Trisha to make Sarah’s dress—her friends had proposed it like a commission, but Trisha refused to charge family. They compromised by calling it Trisha’s wedding gift to them, and Trisha wanted to make sure it was absolutely perfect in every way—which meant frequent fittings and alterations. It was during one such fitting, Sarah standing on a stool in the living room and Trisha sat on her knees pinning the hem and Urey admired the sight of his wife-to-be, that their conversation lulled just in time to hear Van, in the kitchen, say “She wants to <i>marry</i> me, Pinako.”
</p><p>The three young adults fell absolutely silent. Trisha was too experienced to drop pins, but was confident that—were her blood not rushing in her ears—the sound of one hitting the floor would be audible. It reminded her of their school days, when they’d overhear another student get in trouble and all freeze to listen in, staring at each other so as not to look too invested, learning to communicate through facial expressions alone. Except this time Trisha almost felt as though <i>she</i> was the one in trouble, the dark pit of uncertainty that had grown with each of Van’s refusals knotting anew in her gut.
</p><p>Pinako’s voice came to them, slow and serious. “Have you told her about…?”
</p><p>”<i>Yes.</i>” was Van’s emphatic reply. “That’s half the mystery of it. She said she’s made up her mind and is more determined than ever. I can’t understand it.”
</p><p>PInako chuckled, not quite a laugh, but amused nonetheless. “I’ve known that child since she was in diapers, and I still can’t always understand her.”
</p><p>”I tried to talk her out of it.” Van replied. “She just ignores me, as if I hadn’t said anything.”
</p><p>”That’s Trisha for you. More stubborn than a mule, just like her father.” Trisha blanched and made a stab at the hem of Sarah’s dress—not coming close to stabbing her, and sending a glare up the blonde’s way when Sarah jerked back and nearly messed up the pinning. Pinako continued; “Once she sets out to do something, a rockslide couldn’t knock her off her path.”
</p><p>”But I’m…” Van trailed off. Trisha could tell Sarah and Urey were straining to hear the latter half of the sentence, though Trisha knew it wasn’t coming. Urey gave her a look that asked, ‘What’s wrong with him?’ but she shook her head, dismissive. Nothing was wrong with him. So he had a running commentary from 50,000 other people on everything he did. At least he wasn't, like, a misogynist.
</p><p>”You’re what she wants.” Pinako finished for him.
</p><p>”But why am <i>I</i> what she wants?”
</p><p>”Why are you so against this?” Pinako asked. “You’re in love with her, she’s in love with you. Isn’t this what <i>you</i> always wanted? To get married and start a family?”
</p><p>There was a beat of silence. “I just think she could do better.”
</p><p>A soft, cooing look came over Sarah’s face, and Trisha held up a pin threateningly.
</p><p>”Hohenheim,” Pinako began, “there <i>is</i> no better than you in Resembool. Trisha’s known what she’s wanted in a husband since she was a child, and the only living man in this town I can think of who I know for sure meets those standards is sitting in the living room calling Trisha his sister as we speak.”
</p><p>It was only half right, really. Trisha’d known what she <i>didn’t</i> want in a husband since she was small; she only discovered what she was looking for after Van showed up in that storm. Well, there was that week with that Greed man, but that was less discovering <i>what</i> she wanted and more <i>that</i> she wanted. She nodded along anyway, a little more at ease since Pinako was taking her side.
</p><p>”Besides,” the mechanic continued. “She’s known as having impossibly high standards to most of the single men in town.”
</p><p>”Wanting a husband who respects you as a person is an impossibly high standard?” Van’s voice was filled with an uncharacteristic temper. Trisha had never seen him angry once in the half-year he’d been in her house, and while this mix of disbelief and outrage didn’t quite hit the mark, it only endeared her to him more. How could he possibly think anyone else would be a better fit for her?
</p><p>”Yes.” Pinako told him bluntly. “It’s gotten a little better with her generation, but it’s a small town, Van. It’s an echo chamber; like-minded people repeating the same values, or lack thereof, and securing themselves in the opinion that a woman is subservient to her husband.”
</p><p>There was another beat of silence, as if Van was at a loss for words, or maybe lost in thought, and Pinako spoke again. “Think of it this way, Hohenheim: if you don’t accept that Trisha loves and wants you, she’ll either fall into the hands of a man who’ll mistreat her or she’ll end up a spinster all alone in that house at the very end of the road and when she dies she’ll be eaten by cats long before anyone finds her body.”
</p><p>Trisha pressed her lips tightly together to suppress a laugh. Pinako was right, in a morbidly funny kind of way.
</p><p>Van gave a sigh, and it could have been just that Trisha was letting herself hope too much, but it sounded like the sigh of a man who was giving in. “I only brought this up for advice on changing her mind.”
</p><p>”There is no changing her mind. You two are good for each other, you’re in love with each other, there’s no reason for you not to be together. You’d best resign yourself to your fate as Mr. Elric and practice how you’re going to apologize to her for being enough of a moron to try and convince her there’s someone out there who she’d like better.”
</p><p>Trisha felt a smile creep across her face, and maybe her eyes were prickling with tears, when Urey sneezed, loudly, out of nowhere.
</p><p>Instantly, the mood in the house shifted. There was no way Pinako and Van hadn’t heard that, and if the living room wasn’t suddenly filled with noise they’d realize that it had been suspiciously quiet that whole time that they’d been speaking.
</p><p>Trisha threw down the part of the hem she was holding. “Oh, great job, Urey, you sneezed on the dress!”
</p><p>Sarah squealed in disgust, twisting to frantically swipe at the non-existent contact spot as Trisha continued, loudly, to mock Urey for sneezing, and he jumped to his defense. A well-oiled machine, the three of them.
</p><p>”Oh, give it a rest.” Pinako raised her voice as she walked into the living room from the kitchen eith a mug of something and cutting right through their noise. “It’s easy to wash out.”
</p><p>Trisha held out her hand pleadingly. “It’s the <i>principal</i> of the thing.”
</p><p>The look Pinako gave Trisha was a knowing one. Trisha let the corner of her mouth tug up into a grateful half-smile.
</p><p>The sun was setting by the time the fitting had finally wound down and Trisha gathered the dress up to bring home for alterations. The sky was streaked with orange and pink and a hint of purple when Van took a breath like he was about to speak.
</p><p>”You really want to marry me?” he asked, softly.
</p><p>Trisha smiled. “Why would I put so much effort into marrying you if I didn’t?”
</p><p>Van didn’t answer. Instead, he took her hand in his, gently, like she would break if he held her too carelessly. Trisha didn’t mind; there’d be plenty of time to work on that later. She honestly couldn’t bring herself to do anything but grin and hold his hand as well, elated, a piccolo trilling in her chest.
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha Elric was twenty two years old and, by Urey and Sarah’s estimation, about six months pregnant when she noticed the glares in the marketplace. Van was out on a trip that he promised would be brief, something alchemy-related, and Trisha was on a mission to learn to perfect a pie recipe that he’d taught her before he came back. But the disgusted looks from the others around her set her on edge. That’s why, when she heard a commotion behind her, she was able to turn and quickly brace her basket full of fruit in front of her just as an old woman stepped as close to her as she could. She leaned against Trisha’s basket, and Trisha braced with her arms to keep the basket from digging into her swollen stomach. She was a tall woman, and unafraid to use her height as she glared down at the old woman.
</p><p>The hag jabbed a finger towards Trisha’s stomach, not quite daring to touch her. “Trisha Elric, I don’t know what in God’s name you think you’re allowed to be doing in Abraham’s house with that stranger, but I do know he isn’t smiling down on you for it!”
</p><p>Now, there were several statements in that sentence that all would have made Trisha’s blood boil individually. Combining them together, within the same breath, sent her into instead into a <i>cold</i> rage. Trisha shoved with her basket, forcing the old lday—she vaguely remembered her from Sunday school, before her father declared Chruch to be stupid and stopped making her go—to back up several steps. A crowd of gossipy busybodies had gathered, whispering to each other behind their hands.
</p><p>Trisha remembered why she rarely set out into town.
</p><p>”What I do with <i>my husband</i> in <i>my house</i> is none of <i>your</i> concern!” Trisha snapped, drawing herself up.
</p><p>The old woman scoffed. “Oh, your <i>husband</i>, huh? Well why don’t we just go check with Father Aaron about that?”
</p><p>”Why don’t we!” Trisha snapped, and knew immediately that she fucked up. For all that she called and considered Van her husband… she was pretty sure he’d never even met the old preacher. She certainly hadn’t even seen him in years. She had no faith in the church and no desire to involve them in her relationship.
</p><p>She screamed inside of her head the entire walk to the church, though she kept up her outraged stomping gait and scowl the whole time.
</p><p>Resembool’s church was like any other, she assumed. Rows of pews formed an aisle directly to the stage where a podium rested. It was large and echoey, and the snores of an elderly man could be heard before Trisha and the old woman—and several nosey people from the previous group who’d seen fit to follow them up—even reached the front pew, where Father Aaron curled over several pages of shaky handwriting.
</p><p>Father Aaron had been ancient the last Trisha’d seen him, and he looked to be nearly on death’s door now. If it weren’t for the volume of his snoring, she’d have been concerned that he was dead, but she disguised her surprise at his appearance as concern for his well-being. “Maybe we should come back another time, when he’s awake.”
</p><p>The old Sunday school lady laughed loud and hard once, nastily, and Grabbed Father Aaron by the shoulder. She shook him hard, and shouted, “Father Aaron! Did you marry this hussy and her heathen supposed-husband? Because I sure don’t remember the wedding!”
</p><p>Father Aaron woke up with a snort and a confused noise, looking up at the faces gathered around him with watery blue eyes and shaky hands. “Is it time for the sermon?”
</p><p>“No, Father,” Trisha said, all her fire gone in a split second and suddenly feeling very bad for the elderly old man in front of her. Nevertheless… “Father Aaron, a year and a half ago, you married me and my husband at my house, on my farm, did you not?”
</p><p>The old man blinked at her, opening and closing his mouth like Bruno did whenever he got a spoonful of peanut butter. Then slowly, he smiled, and said, “Yes… beautiful little ceremony… just friends and family…”
</p><p>Relief washed over Trisha like a sudden rainstorm, and she turned to the Sunday school woman with her arms crossed and an expectant look. The old lady’s mouth scrunched dramatically—something more severe than a scowl, like she’d been actively hoping Trisha wasn’t married.
</p><p>”Why didn’t any of us get an invite?” she asked snarkily, rather than apologize.
</p><p>Trisha raised an eyebrow. “Not a single one of you have ever spared me a <i>genuine</i>, kind word in my life. Why on God’s green earth would I want a single one of you at my wedding?”
</p><p>”Hmph!” The old lady said.
</p><p>The mock-crowd dissipated, presumably to go spread the word, and Trisha finally relaxed and took a deep breath. A new round of snoring started up, and she took it as her cue to leave. She’d pressed her luck enough today; the last thing she needed was for someone to notice that she wasn’t wearing a ring.
</p><p>Van returned home a couple days after, as Trisha was in the middle of her third pie—which she swore <i>would</i> have been perfect if she hadn’t gotten distracted by welcoming him home and asking him about his trip and devoting the entirety of her attention onto the man she missed so much until smoke filled the house.
</p><p>They each had a fork and a tin of slightly-burnt pie to themselves, sitting on the porch as the house aired out and the charred remains of the final pie still smoldered in the kitchen sink.
</p><p>”We should get married,” Trisha said, bringing her fork to her lips as she watched Bruno chase a squirrel around the tree Remora was buried under. She hated that her first thought when seeing that grave had become the sight from her nightmare; that poor cat stuffed inside of a bottle instead of the boat she’d been trying to place inside. It never could have happened—that wasn’t how alchemy worked, you couldn’t <i>accidentally</i> alchemize something like that. It was her brain’s way of trying to deal with Remora’s peaceful passing in her sleep, Van estimated, colliding horrifically with the collapse that Trisha could not remember. All she remembered was waking up in his arms as he stared down at her tearfully; he told her she’d been trying to alchemize something bigger than she’d tried before and just dropped unconscious. There was no reason for it; she’d done everything right, but something just… "blocked her spirit," he said. Like she was sick or something.
</p><p>Trisha wasn’t learning alchemy anymore.
</p><p>Van looked at her. “Trisha, we <i>are</i> married.”
</p><p>”I know.” she said. “I mean, we should have a wedding. Like a real one, rather than just announcing that we’re married now.”
</p><p>”What do you have in mind?” Van asked, resting his hand on top of hers.
</p><p>”Well,” she mulled the idea over in her head. “I’ve never seen a Xerxian wedding, but if you’d be willing to teach me what they’re like…”
</p><p>She could feel Van staring at her before she even turned to look at him, smiling. He himself looked stunned, but at her smile, he quickly recovered, and smiled back, and fully held her hand to bring her knuckles to his lips.
</p><p>”Well, there’s some element of preparation to a Xerxian wedding,” he said against the back of her hand.
</p><p>”Like what?” she asked, fully invested.
</p><p>”Well,” he rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “There’s an old story about three brothers who all wanted to marry one woman. The first brother gave her fine jewelry, the second fine clothes. The third brother gave her a knife, and told her that should he ever become violent towards her, she should use it to defend herself from him. She chose the third brother. It became part of our culture that when a man wanted to propose to a woman, he should forge and give her a knife that he made specifically for her. Should she accept it, she would carry it on her person as she wove and embroidered a cloth to give back to him, roughly the size that a handkerchief is now, and present it to him as he presented the knife to her to officially accept his proposal.”
</p><p>”I see,” Trisha swung her legs, already thinking of designs to embroider for him.
</p><p>”They would exchange them back, then, until the wedding.” Van continued. “The husband would give her the knife and the wife would give him the cloth. She would unsheith the knife and cut his palm, then lay her hand on top of the cut, and he would lay the cloth over her hand and his hand over the cloth. It symbolized that she would give him security, and he would give her protection.”
</p><p>“That’s sweet,” Trisha said softly.
</p><p>Van’s smile matched her own. “Yes, I feel the same. As a final act of union, the wife would wrap the knife in the cloth and the husband would place it into a box. The box wouldn’t be opened until both had died, and then the remaining family would decide what to do with it.”
</p><p>”What was usually done?”
</p><p>”Oh, there wasn’t really tradition there. Some families kept the sealed boxes as part of their history, some put the knife and cloth on display. I’ve always been fond of the idea of burying the husband with the cloth and the wife with the knife, but, well, they’d have to die on the same day.”
</p><p>Trisha looked up at him to see him smiling at her, referencing their promise, and squeezed his hand. “That sounds wonderful to me.”
</p><p>In the days passing afterwards, Trisha could often see Van sketching in a blank journal. All attempts on her part to sneak glances at the sketches were fruitless, and met with adoring and amused but exasperated smiles. When he presented her with an alchemized masterpiece, however, engraved with detailed depictions of her favorite flowers in her garden, she was glad for the surprise—even if her bursting into tears alarmed him.
</p><p>She knew exactly what she wanted to make in return, and wanted to do so as quickly as possible. After she was sure Van was asleep, she crawled out of bed and retrieved the two bolts of cloth from her sewing room, cutting them to size and—the last transmutation circle she would ever use—transmuted them into the same cloth. Then she started embroidering, until as the sun rose and cast its rays onto the shimmering metallic thread, she finished the scene of a blazing sun and shifting sands against a bright blue sky. After all, if her cloth was to represent the shelter she would give him, then she was happy to give him home and warmth.
</p><p>(He was always complaining about how cold he was, having grown up in a desert. He always sat under a blanket or two, and once complained so much she'd hastily, teasingly, knitted him the thickest pair of socks she could from her scratch yarn. After he'd started actually wearing them around the house, she knit him a few more pairs in far better quality.)
</p><p>She woke Van up to present it to him, and then promptly fell asleep—after all, she was <i>supposed</i> to have been sleeping for two. But she fell asleep with Van’s hand in her hair and woke up with him rousing her for dinner, and she was content.
</p><p>Their wedding took place at sunset a short time after, with Trisha weaving flower crowns for them in place of any special clothing. They wore what was comfortable and stood as close together as they could, only their child in Trisha’s stomach between them. Van spoke in Xerxian, which was a language Trisha had never heard him speak before (and quite liked the sound of), though he guided her through the steps in Amestrian. It was just the two of them, and that felt right to her, though she couldn’t articulate why.
</p><p>The box was closed, and Trisha kissed her husband, and she didn’t think she’d ever been so happy in her life.
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha was twenty three when she’d taken to wearing Van’s shirts around the house, the swell of her stomach bringing too much strain to even her baggiest clothes. Sure, she could alter them, but she’d only have to change them back once her son was born, so she didn’t see much point to it.
</p><p>She had no proof that they were having a boy. There was no way to tell until he was born. It was just something in her that told her so, and Van had started coming up with names.
</p><p>The majority of the names he chose were Xerxian, which Trisha felt wasn't the wisest decision. He wanted their child to have her last name to keep him hidden from the Dwarf, after all, wherever he may be, so it seemed counterproductive.
</p><p>They settled on Cyrus; a Xerxian name that had, somehow, entirely by coincidence, also become a (relatively) common name in Amestris. Cyrus Elric; a bit of both of them.
</p><p>Of course, when Trisha went into labor and Van ran to get the Rockbells and their child was born a girl, they had to start all over from the beginning.
</p><p>"Azar," Van suggested.
</p><p>"She does seem like an Azar," Trisha conceded, "but it doesn't sound very Amestrian."
</p><p>Van made contemplative sounds as he stroked his beard, sitting as close to Trisha and their child as he could without physically being in bed with them. Trisha, politely, pretended not to notice the tear tracks cutting down his face that had yet to dry, even though hers had.
</p><p>"What about Jazmin?" he asked. "You have jasmine flowers in your garden. They're the same thing."
</p><p>Trisha couldn't help but grin. "That's perfect."
</p><p>Jazmin yawned, curling her little baby fists into balls. Her eyes were closed now, as she napped, but they'd been open earlier as she cried and howled with the fury of a thousand suns. Golden suns, like her eyes, and the wisps of hair across her forehead.
</p><p>"She looks just like you." Trisha smiled. "You wanna hold her?"
</p><p>Van looked startled, pulled back a bit. “Oh. No, I… I don’t want to drop her.”
</p><p>Trisha frowned. “You’ll have to hold her eventually.”
</p><p>”I will. Just… not yet.”
</p><p>***
</p><p>(It was a month before he did, Trisha watching from through the doorway as Jazmin started up a half-awake cry after rousing from a nap, and Van reached her first. Even from her distance, Trisha could see the care with which he held the little bundle of blankets and baby. She had to hold back her own tears.)
</p><p>***
</p><p>”I’ll go,” Van offered as Trisha put on her coat.
</p><p>”Nope,” she said lightly, yet firmly. “I’ve been cooped up in the house with the baby for forever. I love our child, but I need to see the sky again. Besides, these dresses need to get delivered. I’ll do the chores, I’ll go to the market, I’ll deliver the dresses, I’ll be right back. All you’ve gotta do is take care of Jazmin.”
</p><p>”Well, I—”
</p><p>”Don’t try to tell me you don’t know how to take care of her, Van. We both know you just don’t trust yourself.” Trisha kissed his cheek. “But <i>I</i> trust you. You know what to do. When she’s hungry, feed her. When she’s dirty, change her. When she’s bored, play with her. When she's lonely, hold her. I’ll be back soon.”
</p><p>Her husband took a deep breath. “Of course. Be safe, love.”
</p><p>”You know I will.”
</p><p>Trisha welcomed the early spring breeze whipping at her clothes and hair like an old friend, even if the chill of it cut down to her bones. She was especially glad she was the one going out today now; Van would never survive in this cold, mild as it was.
</p><p>Bessie and Bella were glad to see Trisha again, and Bruno nearly tripped her four different times as she walked around the farm. She stopped in with the Rockbells on her way to town, cooing at little Winry and promising to bring Jazmin up to meet her sometime soon. Trisha received more than one comment about the quickly-lost baby weight from old ladies in town as she went about buying fruits and flour and other such necessities, and the women Trisha delivered clothes to marveled at the fact that she trusted Van to take care of their daughter all on his own.
</p><p>All in all, she was eager to be home by the time she finally opened the front door to warm air and the steady cadence of Van speaking. Someone must have come to visit while she was out.
</p><p>Or, so she thought, until she’d hung up her coat and actually walked into the kitchen.
</p><p>Van’s back was to her as he explained the periodic table—which he seemed to have drawn in chalk on the wall, right next to an alchemical circle. He’d double-traced the metals so they stood out and seemed to be going through each of them for Jazmin.
</p><p>Jazmin was sitting <i>on</i> the kitchen table, surrounded by pillows braced against various pots and pans, like a barrier to keep her from falling off. If she tried to shoved them aside, they’d make enough noise for Van to notice, even in the state he gets into when he focuses. It was clever.
</p><p>Jazmin seemed to be paying rapt attention, gnawing on a piece of chalk clenched in her chubby baby fists, until the motion of Trisha entering the room drew her attention. She shrieked in delight and threw the chalk, holding her arms up for Trisha to take her.
</p><p>”Yes, it is terribly exciting, isn’t it?” Van said in response to the screech. He turned around in time to see Trisha crossing the room and picking up their child, and Trisha took her own delight in seeing his face redden and the chalk drop from his hand. He cleared his throat, quickly trying to correct himself with an, “Ah, that is—”
</p><p>”Don’t stop on my account,” Trisha giggled, resting Jazmin on her hip. “She was being a very attentive student before I came along to distract her.”
</p><p>“Well, it’s,” Van stammered, still red, and then cleared his throat again. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
</p><p>“Oh, well, that changes everything,” Trisha smiled and rolled her eyes extra dramatically. They both remembered how he’d teach her through meals, and she’d hang on to his every word as she ate as quickly as she could. Trisha sat to open the front of her dress so Jazmin could nurse. “Turning our girl into a little alchemist, hm?”
</p><p>“Why not?” Van defended. “There aren’t nearly enough women involved in science these days, if you ask me.”
</p><p>“I whole-heartedly agree. I just think it’s cute, that you’re sharing your passions with her so early.”
</p><p>She got Van to flush again. It happened so rarely, she was always proud when she managed it.
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha was twenty four. It was a month before Jazmin’s first birthday when her water broke again—two months too early.
</p><p>”It’s too early,” Van had gaped when she told him, looking as if she’d opened her mouth and unleashed a flood of spiders.
</p><p>”Early or not,” Trisha hissed through gritted teeth. “The baby’s coming.”
</p><p>And come he did. Alphonse Elric’s birth was quicker than his older sister’s, due in no small part to his small size, though more difficult, due in no small part to the fact that he <i>was not supposed to have arrived yet</i>. Trisha would learn later that as Sarah helped her through the afterbirth and made sure she would live to see the next morning, Urey had been cleaning and bundling her son up, turning the oven onto a low heat to place him inside with the door open and himself keeping watch, to warm Al's tiny, cold body.
</p><p>It was touch and go for both of them for a period of time, but Trisha recovered entirely and Al ate a lot, and so gained weight steadily. By the time he was <i>supposed</i> to have been born, Trisha and Van were able to have a small, belated celebration for Jazmin’s first birthday.
</p><p>Alphonse, too, carried Van’s coloring, all golden and precious, though his features resembled Trisha’s more closely, in the shape of his eyes and somewhere in his jaw. Trisha had once again been confident that she would have a son (though had prepared a girl’s name with Van, just in case) and was glad that this time she was right. She would have loved him to less were he a girl, as she loved Jazmin no less, but it was validating to have predicted correctly.
</p><p>***
</p><p>(Van took even longer to even touch Al than he had with Jazmin, terrified of hurting him, and seemed to have relapsed on the subject of touching Jazmin as well. Trisha held them often enough for the both of their parents, though, and when Van sat down one day and took Al from her arms so she could more easily stop Jazmin from putting <i>something</i> into her mouth, she was grateful, and had to quickly wipe away her tears so Van wouldn't notice. And that was that.)
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha didn’t wake until she felt Van’s weight shift the bed—or, his lack of weight, as he got up. She rubbed her eyes, glancing around the dark room, and managed to mumble out a question that vaguely resembled, “What’s going on?” before Van placed Jazmin and Alphonse in bed beside her.
</p><p>”Jazmin says there’s a monster under her bed,” Van explained. “I’m going to investigate.”
</p><p>Trisha pushed herself up into a sitting position and propped herself against the pillows as Jazmin cuddled close, burying her face in her side. “I see.”
</p><p>”I could hear it gwowing!” Jazmin lisped with her little voice while Van headed out of the room. Trisha drew Al into her lap as well, fixing her arms around both her children comfortingly. “I couldn’t weave Aw there aww awone so it could get him!”
</p><p>”That’s so brave of you,” Trisha praised, combing her fingers through her daughter's golden hair soothingly. “You’re the best big sister in the world.”
</p><p>”Dad’s gonna make the monstew go away, wight?”
</p><p>”Mhm,” Trisha pressed a kiss to the top of head. “Everything’s going to be alright. You did exactly what you were supposed to.”
</p><p>It wasn’t long before Van came back into the room, smiling gently. “Everyone okay in here?”
</p><p>”Al’s asleep again,” Trisha reported. “You doing okay, Jazzy?”
</p><p>Jazmin eyed her father. “Did you make the monstew go away?”
</p><p>”Something like that.” Van replied. “Would you like to see it?”
</p><p>Jazmin nodded enthusiastically and scrambled off of Trisha’s lap to follow Van out the door. Trisha got up as well, careful not to shift Al too much and wake him again.
</p><p>The little family made their way down the hall and into Jazmin and Al’s room, where an odd rumbling noise that Trisha recognized immediately emerged from beneath Jazmin’s bed. Jazmin clung to Van’s leg. “You said you made it go away!”
</p><p>”If it were a real monster, I would have.” Van explained, crouching down by the bed and preparing to lift the blanket curtaining the space beneath. “But even though this isn’t a monster, I want to tell you something. When you heard it and got scared, you could have just come to wake us up, but instead you got your brother first. I’m very proud of you for that.”
</p><p>”Thank you.” Jazmin said clippedly, eyeing the bed with mistrust.
</p><p>”Jazmin,” Van said, not continuing until she looked at him. “You know I would never let anything hurt you?”
</p><p>She nodded.
</p><p>”Come get a look at your monster.” Van lifted the blanket.
</p><p>Jazmin bent over to see beneath the bed, and Trisha just barely managed to cover Al’s sleeping ears before Jazmin shrieked, as little children do. “<i>Bwuno</i>!! What awe <i>you</i> doing thewe?!”
</p><p>”Protecting you from monsters,” Van answered simply. “And snoring away, because there aren’t any around.”
</p><p>”Snowing!!” Jazmin giggled. “I thought he was a monstew!”
</p><p>”Do you feel better now that you know he’s not?” Van asked, smiling. Trisha knew he already knew the answer.
</p><p>”Yes,” Jazmin nodded.
</p><p>”Then I think it’s time to put you and your brother back to bed,” Van stood and scooped Jazmin up, gently laying her on top of her mattress. Trisha laid Al in his own crib—he wasn’t <i>quite</i> old enough for a bed yet, Jazmin had only gotten hers a little while ago—and folded his blanket over him. She kissed his cheek and passed Van on his way to do the same as she approached Jazmin, already tucked in and rubbing her face to wipe away the feeling of Van’s beard from his kiss.
</p><p>*** 
</p><p>Trisha was twenty eight when she told her husband, hypocritically, ”It’s okay to cry, silly.” Wasn’t she just barely keeping herself from welling up? Smiling to keep the tears down? She followed him to the door and handed him his briefcase, momentarily at a loss for words. What should she say? What <i>could</i> she say? If she asked him to stay, would he? If he did, could she live with herself, knowing what he could have stopped? He said he hoped it wouldn’t take to long, but he was talking like he’d be gone for years.
</p><p>Shuffling behind her drew her attention. Jazmin and Al stood in the hallway, Al wiping the sleep from his eyes.
</p><p>”Hey,” she managed. “What are you two doing up so early?”
</p><p>Jazmin yawned as Trisha made her way over to them and crouched down to their level to ruffle her hair. “Al said he needed to go potty.”
</p><p>”And you were looking after him,” Trisha concluded. “Thank you, Jazmin.”
</p><p>Jazmin and Al both focused their gazes over Trisha’s shoulders, and Trisha stood and turned to look at Van as well. In her gaze she tried to tell him to take the opportunity to say goodbye to them, not to leave it at an awkward hallway staring contest, but he didn’t so much as glance at her. She watched his face fall and then turn hard as she stared at his children—he was trying so hard not to cry—and then he turned, opened the door, and left.
</p><p>Trisha took a deep breath and held it, and allowed herself a count of five to feel it all before she had to start focusing on the kids again.
</p><p><i>One</i>. What would happen now? Where would he go? How often would he write? How often would he visit? Who was going to drape herself over his work when it was late at night so he’d actually stop working, and then cling to him after he brought her to bed so he couldn’t just go right back to it?
</p><p><i>Two</i>. What was <i>she</i> supposed to do now? She had a farm and two small children to take care of at the same time. She supposed she’d started working at about the age that they were now, and it was about time for them to learn, but—god, it was hard to imagine doing anything without Van. She never thought she’d have become so dependent on him, but she supposed when she expected to spend the rest of her life with him, she meant it.
</p><p><i>Three</i>. If he couldn’t do it, would he know when to quit? To come home and tell everyone on the way to move to Xing? To pick up the Elrics and the Rockbells and get them to safety? They hadn’t even told Pinako yet that he was leaving. They’d never told Sarah and Urey about Van. Even though Pinako knew, how was Trisha to explain it to her closest friends, if Van had even asked that she keep it a secret from their children?
</p><p><i>Four</i>. The children. <i>God, the children</i>. Sure, Van had left in their lifetime before, short journeys that took a week or two before he was back, but this… Van had spoken to her like it was the last time he’d ever see them.What about their children? Were they just supposed to grow up without a father? Van didn’t expect her to <i>remarry</i>, did he? And Jazmin was such a daddy’s girl. Trisha hoped, Trisha prayed, that Van would come back before his children forgot his face. They were <i>so young</i>.
</p><p><i>Five</i>. <i>Fuck, she was going to miss him</i>.
</p><p>Trisha let out her held breath in a slow, steady stream, and turned to her children with a smile. “You two ready for breakfast?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Well, here we are. The final chapter. I think you know how this ends.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Trisha had done her best to avoid telling her children that she didn’t know when Van would be back. Al, at the age of four, was easily distracted from the subject—eager to learn about plants and animals from the books Trisha kept on their bookshelves. Jazmin, though, seemed to notice that Trisha avoided the topic.
</p><p>A week after Van left, Jazmin came back into the house holding the knife Trisha’d been looking for all morning. Her hands were bleeding from several small cuts, and her hair looked as if she’d been ambushed by twelve pairs of scissors.
</p><p>Trisha nearly swore, dropping to her knees to pull the knife from Jazmin’s little hand and toss it into the sink before taking her by the wrists and turning her hands over so she could see. The cuts weren’t too deep, or bleeding too badly, but there were many of them—the result of a hack job haircut accomplished by tiny, uncoordinated hands in a moment of great emotion, if the tear tracks down Jazmin’s face were any signifier. Trisha quickly wiped a tear from just under her own eye, hoping Jazmin wouldn’t notice.
</p><p>Trisha picked her up to bring her to the sink, turning the water on. “If you wanted a haircut, honey, you should have just told me. You <i>know</i> you’re not supposed to play with knives.”
</p><p>Jazmin didn’t reply, just wincing when Trisha moved her hands under the water to clean her cuts. Trisha did so as gently as she could; her daughter was clearly in enough pain, regardless of the condition of her hands. Once her hands, and thus her many cuts, were clean and dried, Trisha kneeled down to Jazmin’s height to start bandaging her hands up.
</p><p>“You’re grounded for a month.” she told her. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice about using knives without permission, yeah?”
</p><p>“Dad’s not coming back, is he?”
</p><p>The question took Trisha entirely by surprise. What could she say to that? She couldn’t tell Jazmin that she didn’t know. She couldn’t lie to her and tell her he’d be home soon. She forced her hands back into motion and finished patching her up in silence before looking up at her face.
</p><p>Jazmin’s face was all scrunched and angry, like she was trying not to cry. Try as Trisha might, she could barely see any of herself in her daughter’s face, and she knew Jazmin had to look like Van when he was younger.
</p><p>Trisha cupped Jazmin’s face sweetly, and gently slid her hands back, feeling around and gently moving her head to see her handiwork. There were no cuts or scratches on her scalp, thank goodness, but there were chunks of hair where it looked as if the sharp blade had come far too close for Trisha’s liking. She could picture her, clutching a chunk of hair in one hand and the knife in the other, angling it away from her skull (likely because she remembered how much Al had bled when he was learning to walk and fell over and hit his head on the corner of the bookcase—not hard enough to do any real damage, just break the skin, but Jazmin’s eyes had gone wide and terrified and it took Van an age to calm her down, even after Al had stopped crying and they had explained that heads bleed a lot) and instead hitting the fingers of her opposite hand when the blade finally broke free of her hair strands. It was longer in the back, where Jazmin couldn’t see or reach well; nearly shaved in the front, near her hairline, but still obviously done in chunks and fistfulls.
</p><p>“Is that what this was about, baby?” Trisha asked softly around the lump in her throat.
</p><p>“I hate it!” Jazmin spat with a vehemence she was far too young to be feeling so deeply. Fat tears rolled down her chubby little cheeks amongst dired tear tracks. Trisha felt her heart break in her chest, her own tears starting to flow again. “It’s just like his!”
</p><p>Trisha pulled Jazmin into her lap and wrapped her arms tightly around her. The five-year-old returned the embrace as tightly as she could—she was surprisingly strong—and mashed her face against Trisha’s collarbone. She let out a little muffled noise, halfway between a sob and an angry shout, and Trisha started rubbing her back and rocking her gently.
</p><p>Trisha couldn’t believe there was ever a point in time when she didn’t think she was going to have kids. She loved Jazmin and Al more than she had ever loved anything or anyone before. Knowing Jazmin was like this, was this hurt over Van’s absence, knowing she could do nothing to soothe the ache but be there and wait with her, holding her daughter as she cried, physically pained her.
</p><p>“I love you so, so much, honey.” Trisha whispered into Jazmin’s ear, holding her tighter and cupping the back of her head with her other hand, giving her what little comfort she could provide. “And I love your hair.”
</p><p>***
</p><p>A month after Van left, Trisha lost the child she hadn’t known she was pregnant with.
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha woke up when her mattress shifted with new weight. Her first impulse was to ask Van what was wrong; her heart sank when she remembered. Before the disappointment could set in, though, a tiny body nudged itself beneath her arm and snuggled against her chest. Trisha buried her nose in her child’s hair and inhaled deeply, a comfort and an identifier; her children were active, and often smelled like sunlight and sweat—or sunlight and soap, since she made sure they always got baths before bed—but there was always a tell. Jazmin and Al had their own distinctive scents, as all humans do, something that didn’t smell like anything else in the world but that person.
</p><p>“You okay, Al?” Trisha managed to open her heavy eyelids to peer down at her son, readjusting her arm so she was holding him.
</p><p>“Mhm.” Al responded with a content little sigh.
</p><p>“You didn’t wanna sleep in your own bed?”
</p><p>“I couldn’t sweep. I miss Dad.”
</p><p>Trisha tucked Al’s head beneath her chin. “Me too, kiddo. You didn’t wanna sleep in your sister’s bed? She’s closer.”
</p><p>“Jazmin gets mad when I talk about Dad.” 
</p><p>Something in Trisha twisted. She’d noticed it too, how Jazmin’s grief had been slowly turning to resentment as the months passed. Al just seemed sad.
</p><p>“Well,” Trisha kissed Al’s forehead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, either, so you and I and Jazmin can sit tight right here at home and wait for him together, alright honey?”
</p><p>Al hummed his acceptance, sounding far more content than he had just a few moments ago. He curled up in Trisha’s arms and fell right to sleep.
</p><p>She held him as tightly as she dared to, filled with love for him as she looked down at his sleeping face, so like hers. Al had been toddling around after Jazmin ever since Van left, and Trisha had worried that Al was pulling away from her. She should have known it was a ridiculous concept; he’d learned to walk by clinging to her skirts and shuffling his feet as she slowly made her way across the room, after all. He insisted on holding her hand whenever they left the farm. Jazmin was growing to be more independent, with a tendency to run off without a warning to go out and play on the farm, which was good, actually—so long as she started learning to tell Trisha when she was leaving—but Al was still every inch a mama’s boy, still as attached to Trisha as he was to his big sister.
</p><p>Trisha carded her fingers through her son’s hair. She’d do anything for her children. She was determined to do right by them, to raise them happy and healthy and safe, even without Van here to help. It’s what they deserved.
</p><p>God, she loved them so much.
</p><p>***
</p><p>The damp sheets drifted gently in the faint breeze, scenting the air with a clean laundered smell. The sun was shining, the leaves just turning orange, the temperature just this side of warm, and Trisha’s heart just feather-light in her chest as she listened to her children laughing while she pinched the clothespin between her fingers to open it.
</p><p>Jazmin and Al were helping Trisha hang the laundry to dry, a phrase which here means that they were submitting to their imaginations and weaving in and out of various bedclothes and garments while creating games to play. Trisha didn’t mind in the slightest; she’d had to grow up too quickly. She wanted her children to enjoy being five and four for as long as they could—and then being six and five, and then seven and six, and so on forever.
</p><p>She took a break to watch them as Jazmin pulled a yet-unhanged bedsheet from the basket and threw it over her head, holding her arms out to Al. Jazmin started making a shaky woo-ing sound. A bedsheet ghost.
</p><p>Al turned to Trisha with teary eyes and made a whining noise as he scampered over to her. “It ate Jazmin!”
</p><p>Trisha cooed to hide her laugh, in awe of the minds of children and how they processed things. She bent down to pick Al up to comfort him and saw that Jazmin had frozen. She couldn’t see Jazmin’s face, but she could see the gears turning in her little head as she recognized the sound of her brother’s tears and formulated a plan to rectify it.
</p><p>Trisha kept her crouched stance, holding Al reassuringly as they watched Jazmin begin to pitch a fit, crying out valiantly against the foul beast and thrust what Trisha assumed were her fists against the inside of the sheet. Eventually Jazmin’s punching displaced the sheet, which fell to the ground, and Jazmin began stomping on it. Trisha sighed—it had just rained, and now mud was getting all over the sheet, but she couldn’t bring herself to mind or even drop her smile, especially when Al laughed and wiped away his tears to join his sister in jumping on the sheet.
</p><p>“My brave little warriors,” she said, proud of Jazmin for her quick thinking and proud of Al for running to get help when he was (perceivably) in over his head. As soon as they vacated the sheet, Trisha gathered it up and tossed it to a less muddy section of the grass to be re-washed later. Maybe they’d help her with that too, and she’d get to watch them splash each other with soapy water, and then totally own them when she poured the whole tub over both of their heads.
</p><p>And then put them in the bath, because the water would definitely be muddy.
</p><p>***
</p><p>“Welcome home you two!” Trisha called, not yet looking up from her knitting. She was nearly finished with this scarf, and Jazmin was about due for a new one.
</p><p>Usually her children raced inside, chattering about their day at school and how well they did and how they’d corrected that crotchety old bastard of a schoolteacher on alchemy and then run and get cookies and hot chocolate to warm up from the freezing chill of the outside.
</p><p>(Trisha truly was proud of them for how well they’d taken to alchemy; if there was one thing Trisha regretted in her life, it was that she’d been so preoccupied with the farm being hers that she never once left town to go see the rest of Amestris. They really were their father’s children: with their proficiency in alchemy, they could get a scholarship to a good school. They’d go on to do great things and travel all around, she just knew it.)
</p><p>Today though, Trisha only heard them quietly taking off their winter clothes, and looked up to watch them trudge into the living room with lowered heads.
</p><p>“What happened?” she asked, setting aside her knitting to give them her undivided attention. Then she noticed the notes pinned to their shirts, and understanding dawned on her. “Did you guys get into a fight?”
</p><p>Jazmin tore the note from her shirt angrily and held it out for Trisha to take. Al carefully unpinned his and did the same.
</p><p>Trisha skimmed over the familiar handwriting and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s just a whole bunch of nonsense.”
</p><p>She dropped the notes directly into the fireplace’s flame. Al gaped, and Jazmin grinned.
</p><p>“Did they deserve it?” Trisha took her knitting again, cool as anything. She imagined what Van would say if he were here right now; that pacifism is the best way, and violence could never really be justified, they should have talked it out, and he would have wanted to read the notes himself and have a stern conversation with his daughter and son. Trisha, though, couldn't bring herself to scold them for something she herself had done.
</p><p>“Yeah!” Jazmin scowled. “They threw Jenny’s books into a really big snow pile and she had to dig them out even though she doesn’t have any mittens!”
</p><p>“She doesn’t?” Trisha asked, raising her gaze to her daughter once more. Jazmin nodded.
</p><p>“Her hands were all red and they hurt so much she was crying!” Al confirmed. “So Winry held them to warm them up and Jazmin started fighting the boys but there were two of them so I had to help her!”
</p><p>Trisha set the scarf aside once more to take up another pair of needles and reach for the warmest yarn she had. “Well, you two go ahead and get yourself some hot cocoa and an extra cookie, okay? I’m very proud of you both. Then one of you pick out a story to read out loud while I knit Jenny some mittens, sound good?”
</p><p>They squealed in joy and hurried to do as Trisha suggested. Trisha spent the rest of the afternoon and evening knitting some mittens for that poor girl and listening to her children read from a book of fairy tales.
</p><p>***
</p><p>It had just started getting warm that spring, and the day had been filled with window-opening and everything-cleaning to drive out the last of the stuffiness that being cooped up inside all winter had brought. Even though night had fallen and the child had returned, Trisha wanted to keep the windows open for the sake of airing out the house—she just made sure the blankets were layered over her children so they wouldn’t get cold.
</p><p>When she heard one of her children enter the kitchen, though, she assumed it was the cold that woke them.
</p><p>“You know where the blankets are, honey,” she said, rinsing off the final dinner bowl. “I'm sure your sibling won’t mind you crawling into bed with them to keep warm.”
</p><p>“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Jazmin’s voice was as serious as a seven-year-old could make it. Worry and curiosity took Trisha in equal parts as she dried the bowl with the towel, and then her hands.
</p><p>“What’s this about, then?” she asked.
</p><p>Jazmin pulled out a chair from the table and gestured for Trisha to do the same. She suppressed a little slime and sat across from Jazmin.
</p><p>Jazmin’s pretty golden eyes met Trisha’s soberly.
</p><p>“Mom,” she said, “I’m not a girl. I’m a boy.”
</p><p>For a moment, Trisha was confused. Then she recalled that Van had told her before about gender being more of a spectrum than they taught in science classes, not defined by one’s sex, and even that sex wasn’t as binary as people thought. There were no—what was the word?—transgender individuals in Resembool (or if there were, they were afraid to come out about it), so Trisha’d never actually met one before. She didn’t know what to do.
</p><p>She wished Van were here.
</p><p>Then a triumphant voice in the back of her head crowed, <i>I KNEW I was having a son! I told you so! Didn’t I tell you? I told you!</i>
</p><p>Took a deep breath and let her smile show. “Okay. I guess I’ll have to start on a new wardrobe for you, huh?”
</p><p>Her son nodded, still very somber, trying to be adult in the way that children do when they want to be taken seriously. “Yes please.”
</p><p>“And give you a haircut.” Trisha tousled his hair. “You and your brother are due for a trim anyway.
</p><p>“Thank you.”
</p><p>“You’re welcome—” Trisha cut herself off before she could call him Jazmin. “Do you want a new name, too? Your father and I had a list of them.”
</p><p>He visibly blanched at the mention of Van, but quickly straightened out his features. Trisha didn’t get the chance to be sad about his blatant dislike for his father before he told her, “I already picked one out. Edward Jamison Elric.”
</p><p>“Edward Jamison, huh?” another smile played on Trisha’s lips at the familiar name. “Wasn’t he a pretty well-known alchemist?”
</p><p>Finally, Edward broke out into a smile as well. “Yeah!”
</p><p>His smile made Trisha grin with pride, and with relief. She’d navigated this interaction correctly thus far; she had no doubt that as Edward grew up she’d make mistakes, but she also knew that she would do her damndest to do right by her oldest son.
</p><p>She made a mental note to visit Pinako and root around through Urey and Sarah’s medical textbooks to see if they had any information Trisha could use to educate herself with this. She already knew she was going to do the same with Van’s books tonight.
</p><p>But first, “I do believe you’re supposed to be in bed by now, young sir.”
</p><p>Edward nodded, still beaming and hopped up from his chair. Trisha walked him back to his and Al’s room, tucked him into bed, kissed him goodnight, and was pulled back down as she tried to pull away by a surprise extra hug.
</p><p>“I love you, Mom.” her son whispered into her ear.
</p><p>Trisha hugged him back. “I love you too, Ed. No matter what.”
</p><p>***
</p><p>Ed came home several days later in his new clothes and his new haircut <i>hopping</i> mad, tear stains streaking his cheeks and face redder than the cherry tomatoes in Trisha’s garden. Al was right on his heels, calling him big <i>brother</i>, emphasizing the <i>brother</i> as he tried to calm him.
</p><p>“What happened?” Trisha had an idea already of what had occurred, but accepting the note that Ed gave her as he tore it off of his shirt.
</p><p>Trisha skimmed over it, the teacher’s handwriting still familiar from when she’d studied it on the chalkboard so many years ago. She didn’t absorb all of what he said—something about letting her daughter pretend to be a boy, about knowing better, about God’s way—but she didn’t need to to see red.
</p><p>She marched into the hall and swept her coat off the rack, roughly pulling on her boots to protect from the mud spring rain had summoned. “Boys, you stay here. I’ll take care of this.”
</p><p>They didn’t listen. Trisha heard them trudging along behind her to keep up with her pace, they weren’t making any real effort to hide that they were following her, but they correctly assumed that Trisha didn’t really mind. She didn’t want to let the boys see her lose her temper, but she was too angry to care very much at all whether they did or not.
</p><p>Trisha had seen Mr. Linney around town occasionally while shopping for things the Elrics needed and couldn’t grow themselves, or delivering excess vegetables and things Trisha had been commissioned to make, so she wasn’t surprised at all by the way he’d aged since she was in school last. It was still a slightly jarring sight; he dressed the same, hunched over his desk the same, eyed her with the same displeased look he always had. But now he was balding and wrinkled, and Trisha was sure—or at least, Trisha <i>hoped</i>—that significantly less of her children’s classmates had crushes on him than her classmates.
</p><p>Jarred or not, Trisha did not hesitate before marching into the classroom and slapping the crumpled note flat onto his desk. Ed and Al crowded around the doorway, seeming to sense that they wouldn’t be allowed into the room itself.
“You will respect my son.” She affirmed.
“Good evening to you too, Mz. Elric.” Linney said dryly.
</p><p>Trisha’s temper spiked. “That’s <i>Mrs.</i> Elric. I am a married woman.”
</p><p>“My apologies. I had assumed that, given your husband’s extended absence, you were no longer involved.” Linney licked his pen nub and scribbled on someone’s paper, presumably grading.
</p><p>“My husband,” Trisha’s voice was low and soft, but rage boiled in her chest, “is an alchemist. He’s traveling for his research. If he weren’t, it would still be, frankly, none of your business.”
</p><p>“Well.” Scribble, scribble, dot. “Perhaps if your husband were at home, your daughter wouldn't feel the need to masquerade as a man.”
</p><p>“That’s what I came here to ask you about, actually,” Trisha said mock sweetly. “You see, in your note here, you make a lot of presumptions about my daughter. But the thing is, I don’t have a daughter. So I’m confused.”
</p><p>“Mrs. Elric, it is unhealthy for you to encourage this behavior in Jazmin.” Linney looked up at her sternly, as if she were a child he was about to scold.
</p><p>“I’m going to stop you right there.” Trisha held up her hand and glared down at him, as if he were the misbehaving child. His mouth clamped shut, miraculously, and Trisha continued. “Who is he hurting? By being a boy now, who does he hurt? What is wrong with my son dressing like a boy and using a boy’s name and calling himself a boy?”
</p><p>“She’s not a boy,” Linney tried to protest, but Trisha silenced him with a Look.
</p><p>“My children are smarter than you.” she told him bluntly. “You’re a failed alchemist who resorted to teaching basic sciences to children because you couldn’t make it as a state alchemist. My children are self-taught and leagues ahead of what even I accomplished under my husband’s teaching. And now my son has come forward about who he really is, and you’re bitter and hiding behind a facade of religion to justify for bigotry—which, if you’re ever trying to convince me that something is wrong, why would you ever use God to justify it? Everyone already knows that I’m of the opinion that God has some shit to answer for.”
</p><p>“Mrs. El—”
</p><p>“No. Shut up. You <i>will</i> refer to my son by his name, Edward Jamison, and you <i>will</i> refer to him with the right pronouns. If you cannot, then they will not be returning to this school, as they’ve already proven themselves more than capable of educating themselves without issue.”
</p><p>Linney steamed. “Fine then. I <i>look forward</i> to seeing your <i>sons</i> in class tomorrow.”
</p><p>Trisha smiled winningly. “Excellent. I’ll be sure they’re there. Come on, boys, let’s go home.”
</p><p>Trisha expected excited chattering the whole way home, but her boys were quiet. Al clung to her right hand, leaning around her to get a look at Ed, who held her left and leaned into her, quietly contemplating something.
</p><p>“You okay, honey?” she asked him softly.
</p><p>Ed nodded and gave her a small, but genuine, smile. “Thank you, Mom.”
</p><p>Trisha smiled back at him. “Of course, honey. I’ll always be behind you. And you as well, Al, in anything you may face as well.”
</p><p>Al and Ed ambushed her with a hug, wrapping their arms around her legs so she couldn’t walk, and she wrapped her arms back around them best she could from her significantly-taller-than-them angle. When their grips loosened, she crouched down, clutched them close to her, and picked them up—one boy on each hip.
</p><p>“Oooough, you’re heavy!” she exaggerated, stumbling around like she <i>might</i> fall over, which she wouldn’t. They squealed and hung onto her, and she carried them the rest of the way home. 
</p><p>***
</p><p>The day had been long and hot, and both Ed and Al were making a commotion about being hungry as they finally arrived home. Trisha understood—she was hungry too—and clung to the remaining strands of patience she had. The boys didn’t deserve to be snapped at just because a day of unending delays had worn her down when she was <i>just trying to run a few errands</i>.
</p><p>She started cooking as soon as she entered the kitchen, absently acknowledging the glass of milk that someone—possibly herself—had left on the counter before the left. There was no possible way it was still good, and Trisha made a mental note to throw it out as soon as she was finished making dinner. Feeding her children came first.
</p><p>It was far too late for a stew, so a vegetable mixture with potatoes and chicken would have to do. She chopped up carrots, sliced potatoes into quarter-circles, divided broccoli into bite-sized pieces, browned her ground beef.
</p><p>“Moooom,” Ed whined from the table, drawing the word out. “I’m hungryyyy…”
</p><p>Trisha took a deep breath. “Why don’t you have a glass of milk to tide you over? I’m working on dinner right now, honey, it shouldn’t be too long.” She tossed the already-sliced vegetables into the pan with the beef to help flavor and cook at and set to work chopping up an onion. She tossed that in, added a few more seasonings, let it all cook together for a while, and then it was finished and ready to be served up.
</p><p>The boys ate like starving men, which was endearing to watch. She could relax now; with her children fed and happy, she didn't have much else to worry about. She just might turn in a little early tonight, after tending to the farm and making sure everything was alright.
</p><p>“Ed, please remember to swallow your food before you take a drink,” Trisha reminded when she saw him chewing right after taking a swig of milk.
</p><p>“I did,” Ed said defensively, his face scrunched up. “But it’s chunky and I don’t like swallowing them without chewing.”
</p><p>Trisha blinked at him. She took a real look at his milk, <i>clearly</i> bad. She twisted and turned towards the counter, where the previously spied glass of expired milk was no longer located. She shot across the table and snatched it from Ed’s hand right before he took another drink, rushing towards the sink.
</p><p>It was nearly empty before Trisha even poured it out and she did her best to suppress a gag. “Ed, Al, for future reference, if you leave milk out for a long time it goes bad and then it might make you sick if you drink it.”
</p><p>“Is that why I don’t feel so good?”
</p><p>Trisha left the glass in the sink to go to Ed’s side. Despite the voracity he’d been eating with earlier, he did have way more food left on his plate than Al did, and Al’s appetite was usually a little slighter than his brother’s.
</p><p>“Let’s take you to the bathroom, honey,” She put a hand on his back comfortingly. “Just in case. Al, you didn’t have any of Ed’s milk, did you? Good. You keep eating, kiddo, you’re doing fine, but your brother might throw up, so we’re just going to hang out in the bathroom for a little bit.”
</p><p>Ed did throw up. A lot. Even after all that was left in his stomach was acid, his body still insisted on purging it from him. Trisha felt awful; if she’d tossed that milk out when she’d seen it, this wouldn’t be happening. Ed got like her when he threw up: he started crying, all leaking eyes and runny nose and the misery that nausea brought. He spent his time in between spells leaning against her and just feeling like trash as she did her best to comfort him, and not throw up herself.
</p><p>Al joined them after he’d finished eating, letting them know that he’d cleaned his own plate and put their food in the fridge for them. Trisha thanked him and welcomed him onto her other side—“Not Ed’s, he needs to be able to get up quickly,”—and made a mental note to check up on those before bed. Al was reliable, but he was six, and not quite practiced enough to go wholly unsupervised with chores. Which was why Trisha asked him to keep Ed company when the sun began to set—someone needed to put all the animals to bed for the night.
</p><p>Trisha rushed through evening chores as quickly as she could. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, she wished Van was here. Having an extra parent around would be great in times like this—hell, if Van were home, she doubted this incident would have happened in the first place. He would have made dinner, and Trisha would have been free to keep a better eye on the boys and throw away bad milk. But more than anything she wanted a parent with Ed, to comfort their sick child as the other did the chores that needed doing.
</p><p>Also, she missed him. She felt like a sock whose match had been lost; still perfectly functional, individual and independent, but incomplete.
</p><p>Trisha came inside and tucked Al into bed. Ed had gone long enough without throwing up that she felt like he should get his rest as well. She wiped his face clean, helped him rinse and spit, and let him change into his pajamas while she got her biggest mixing bowl for him to use in case he needed to throw up in the middle of the night.
</p><p>“Please stay,” he asked her, quiet and ashamed—he had nothing to be ashamed of, but Trisha always felt the same when she was sick, so she understood.
</p><p>She sat down beside his bed and rubbed his back. Not too long after, Al took his pillow and crawled into Ed’s bed with him—not blocking the edge, so Ed could still lean over it if he needed.
</p><p>By the morning Ed was great again, but Trisha never got him to drink another glass of milk. Even perfectly fresh milk made him sick, as his brain had seemed to reclassify milk as a toxin, rather than something good and edible. She was sure he’d get over it some day, with enough working at it.
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha was putting away her dry laundry when she heard a frog’s croak. Her eyes slid closed and she took a deep breath, counting to ten before setting on her search around the room.
</p><p>She’d banned frogs from the house a week ago.
</p><p>Ed and Al had, for some reason, recently taken to trying to keep a frog as a pet. They’d catch them by the stream cutting through the farm, stuff their pockets, and try to hide them around the house. The last straw for Trisha had been finding one sitting on top of the dishes when she opened the cabinet.
</p><p>The croaking drew Trisha to her bed, where she noticed several lumps beneath her blanket.
</p><p>One of the lumps coraked again.
</p><p>“Edward Jamison Elric!” Trisha bellowed. “Alphonse Desmond Elric!”
</p><p>Silence. The boys trailed in, eyes cast downward, glancing up at her. She pointed to the bed.
</p><p>“Ed said it was the last place you would look.” Al said quietly.
</p><p>“And I said no frogs in the house!” Trisha shot as Ed gave his brother a Look. “Take them back outside! You’re not hiding any more around the house, are you?”
</p><p>Silence.
</p><p>Trisha threw her hands up in exasperation. “I’m going to go milk the cow. If there is a single frog in this house when I come back inside, you’re both grounded.”
</p><p>Bessie was a great listener. Over the years she’d heard Trisha gripe about her father, gripe about the men in town, gush about Van, gush about her children, worry about Urey and Sarah in Ishval, and most recently talk about Van again; hoping he was alright, wondering when he’d come back. Today, Bessie listened to Trisha vent about those damned frogs, of all things. But when Trisha came back inside, the boys promised her all frogs had been removed from the house.
</p><p>And Al gave her a handful of things he’d found out on the property: pretty stones and flowers, sticks and leaves—children’s treasure.
</p><p>“I’m sorry about the frogs.” he said sincerely, looking deep into her eyes.
</p><p>“Thank you,” Trisha crouched down to his level and pulled him into a hug, kissing his forehead. “I appreciate your apology and I forgive you.”
</p><p>Al snuggled into her arms. Both of her children enjoyed hugs, but Al was a mama’s boy. Ed had always been his father’s son—Trisha hoped he still would be whenever Van came home—but Al was her cuddlebug. She hoped he wouldn’t grow out of it.
</p><p>***
</p><p>Trisha’d ignored it the last few days. It was just a little cold, a mild fever. Then it was a tickle in her throat, some fatigue. Then she found it difficult to get up in the morning, more so than normal, but when she did her head was hazy. She was hot and she was cold, shivering but sweating. She leaned heavily on the walls as she walked because her legs could barely bear her weight.
</p><p>She needed to see Pinako. Urey and Sarah were gone—they’d gotten the news just months ago, and Trisha and Pinako were both still grieving—but Pinako had their textbooks. She’d find something to help.
</p><p>The floor swayed beneath Trisha. The next thing she remembered were Ed and Al’s faces, looking down at her in fear, and then waking up in her own bed with Pinako seated in a chair beside her.
</p><p>Trisha Elric was thirty one years old when she had to begin facing the very real possibility that she would die.
</p><p>When she thought of her future, she’d imagined she’d grow old with her husband and die peacefully in her sleep on the same day as him, surrounded by their children and grandchildren. There were so many things she had wanted to do before the end of her life. She wanted to watch her sons grow up. She wanted to see Winry grow up. She wanted to visit her sons and niece in their far away fancy colleges, where’d they’d be because of how amazingly intelligent they are.
</p><p>She wanted her sons to know about their Xerxian heritage. She wanted to watch Van tell them about his life, and everything he’d been through.
</p><p>She wanted to see her husband one more time.
</p><p>Trisha spent her moments of lucidness between the fever dreams writing everything down. In her will she left everything to her sons, under Pinako’s supervision. In her notebook, she told her boys everything. She told them about her parents, and how they way they treated her as a child shaped her personality, and how she’d known from a very young age that she would never hit her children or let them go hungry and alway make sure they were loved more than anything else in the universe. She told them about Van. She told them about meeting him and letting him stay with her became falling in love with him and convincing him to marry her. She told him about the kind of man he was; gentle, kind, intelligent. She told them about him. He’d asked her not to, but she didn’t know when he’d be back, and they deserved to know. She told them about her wedding to Van, and everything she knew about Xerxes.
</p><p>She told them about themselves. She made sure they knew that they were her life’s greatest joys, that they were the two best things to ever happen to her. She told them how proud of them she was, how she knew they would grow to be good men. She told them how sorry she was that she wouldn’t get to be there while they did.
</p><p>“Give it to them when they’re older,” she asked Pinako when she handed the notebook over, filled with her writing from cover almost to cover. “When they’re old enough to understand. Or give it to Van, when he comes back.”
</p><p>Pinako nodded. She didn’t tell Trisha that she was ridiculous for thinking she would die, that she would get better. She was a no-nonsense woman. Trisha appreciated it.
</p><p>“I’m sorry to do this to you,” she said. She would be crying, she thought, but her body was using all of her water to try and fight… whatever this illness was. “I’m sorry to leave you with the boys, right after Urey and Sarah.”
</p><p>Pinako shook her head, lifting her glasses to adjust her mask. “Don’t apologize for what’s beyond your control.”
</p><p>Trisha nodded. She was so tired. “And you’ll give them the notes?”
</p><p>She couldn’t say goodbye like she wanted, couldn’t hug them tight and kiss their faces and tell them she loved them until she was gone—she couldn’t risk getting them sick, too. She couldn’t bear even the thought of it. But not being there to tell them that she loved them when they needed to hear it broke their heart, so she wrote it down for them. One note for them each, addressing them by name and telling them she loved them. She wanted to elaborate, but she wanted them to be applicable in any situation, so she’d done all of her elaborating in her book.
</p><p>“As soon as we can safely assume that they won’t pass anything to your boys, yes.” Pinako agreed. “Do you have anything for me to give to your husband?”
</p><p>Trisha had planned on it. She wanted to tell Van every little detail of the time she’d spent with the boys, wanted to tell him that every moment she’d spent with him had been bliss, that he wasn’t a monster, that she <i>loved him</i>. She could write to him for days. She could cover acres of land in her writing for him. But she’d had just enough strength left to finish the notes for her boys before lifting her hand became too much of an effort.
</p><p>“Tell him…” she said softly. “Tell him that I’m sorry I broke my promise.”
</p><p>Pinako nodded. She didn’t look at Trisha. Trisha knew she was crying.
</p><p>She wanted to apologize again, but instead she just closed her eyes. She wished she could tell her sons goodbye in person. When they’d visited her earlier, she’d said them, in a roundabout way that she hoped they hadn’t picked up on. She hadn’t wanted to scare them. She pictured their faces in her head. She pictured Van’s. She pictured Sarah and Urey and Pinako and Winry.
</p><p>She’d see them all again soon. Sarah and Urey would be there when she arrived, wherever “there” was. One by one, her family would join her. Pinako. Van. Long after that, she hoped, her boys and Winry. She imagined all of them together again. All of them happy. She couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.
</p><p>Trisha Elric fell asleep. 
</p><p>She didn’t wake up.</p>
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